


Strange in a Strange Land

by Aelaer



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Friendship, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 01:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8602444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelaer/pseuds/Aelaer
Summary: Jumping into different dimensions always involves risk. Sometimes you never know what sort of troubles you will run into until you have arrived. Thankfully, alongside these dangers a sorcerer is sometimes lucky enough to come upon unexpected allies.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Seeing Doctor Strange planted a plot bunny so vicious that it drew me out of a 5-year fan fiction hiatus.
> 
> It is based strictly off of the film of Doctor Strange; while I did a lot of reading on his comic book self and his powers there, I found the film version fit better in the story. The Lord of the Rings aspect is based off the book, though some elements of fanon may emerge. I expect this story to be about four chapters long. Rating is for violence and some language.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed jumping into the fan fiction world once more.

When he came to, the first thing he felt was a throbbing pain in his head that pounded with every beat of his heart. Holding back a grimace, he concentrated on breathing to control the burning within his skull.

As the pain became more manageable, he became aware of other things. His cheek was pressed against something unrelentingly hard that provided little warmth, and the air about him was stifling and still. _Inside, then_ , fluttered through his mind. It was quiet about him; listening for a few minutes against the pounding in his ears revealed no obvious noises.

With that knowledge, he attempted to move for the first time — and his arms and shoulders burned suddenly as he shifted, causing him to quickly quench down a cry before it escaped his throat. Biting his lip, he carefully attempted to move his arms again. This time, the tight ropes about his wrists registered through his mind.

_Not again._

He exhaled slowly, allowing his body to recover from the pain that flared from trying to move. As he lay quietly for a short time, the man suddenly became aware of another sound: breathing that was not his own from the left side of the room.

His breath caught in his throat and all of his concentration went to the source of the noise. Focusing for a moment brought little other information; the soft sound of breathing came regularly, and at one point he heard something shifting. Other than that, all was still. After listening for a couple minutes and once certain there was no other movement, he carefully opened his eyes. He was greeted by darkness. Within a moment his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the room.

It was a cell, that much was evident. His back was to the entrance; what little light that streamed through the cracks in the wooden door revealed dark stone and windowless walls. The wall he faced was adorned only with sets of iron manacles connected to short chains. His gaze fell to the floor; moldy straw haphazardly thrown into the right corner served as some sort of bedding.

Once he took in the sight about him, he slowly pushed himself to his knees; while difficult with his arms pinned behind his back, eventually he found himself in a sitting position. He closed his eyes against the wave of dizziness that assaulted him and concentrated once more upon his breathing.

When stable once more, the man slowly shifted his gaze to the left wall. He blinked, then squinted against the darkness to stare. By far, the most interesting aspect about his surroundings was his cellmate.

His companion's pale face was bruised and bloody, the worst wound being a deep cut on his forehead partially obscured by his dark hairline. A well-trimmed beard surrounded a split lip. He shifted his gaze to the rest of him; the dark of the cell and his clothes obscured additional wounds he might have, but from how the man's arms hung from his fetters, he highly suspected that the other's left arm was dislocated from his shoulder.

The red cloak was, by far, the strangest element about him. It was long and thick, adorned with patterns he could not make out in the poor light. Its long, prominent collar completed the picture of his outright odd-looking, unexpected companion.

As his own head began to softly throb again, he took a moment to turn away from the man and look down at himself to gauge his own injuries as well as he could. He could not see his arms, of course, but he felt no great pain beyond the discomforting stretch in his shoulders; a welcoming revelation. He was dismayed to see a long cut on his left thigh, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped some time ago.

_Well, Aragorn, just how are you going to get yourself out of this one?_ He frowned to himself at the question. It was a fair question, too. He looked back to his torso. His outer surcoat and chainmail were gone, but they left his tunic mostly intact. This was good. _Perhaps…_

"Oh good, you're awake."

Aragorn jerked his head up and immediately regretted it. He shut his eyes quickly and held back a wince as his skull began throbbing once more.

"Sorry," he heard evenly spoken beyond the pounding in his ears. "And do be careful, you're suffering from a severe concussion."

Allowing a moment to catch his breath, Aragorn slowly opened his eyes to meet a keen pair looking back at him. Beneath the mask of examination he could detect that the other man held back his own pain.

"I should say the same of you," Aragorn answered. "You took a blow to the head."

The man grimaced. "I'm well aware of that," he answered stoically. "It only dazed me. You were unconscious for some time."

He felt his own lips tug down into a grimace. "Indeed," said Aragorn. "So I thought you were just now."

"No," the red-cloaked man said immediately. "I was meditating, actually."

That was not the answer he was expecting. "Meditating?"

Something like annoyance flickered across his face. "Yes. Meditating." Exhaling slowly, he turned his head away to look at his right hand hanging from a short chain that connected to the wall. He concentrated on it, and it quivered for a moment before he let it drop with another exhale. "Almost," he murmured to himself. He then twisted his eyes to peer at his left arm.

Aragorn looked at the arm as well. "I cannot see well, but it looks to be dislocated," he murmured, instinctively shifting closer to examine the limb.

He looked again over at Aragorn. "Anterior dislocation," he answered. "Little I can do about that now."

Rather than countering him, he looked down upon himself once more, eyeing his left thigh in particular. Aragorn paused to get his right leg from under him and carefully began to lift himself up. His left leg buckled, but he did not fall, and slowly he made his way to his companion. Once at his side, he let himself lean against the wall. "I believe — I do not think they took the knife hidden inside my tunic." Aragorn took a moment to catch his breath. "If you could remove it and cut my bonds, I can reset your arm."

The other looked at him suspiciously. "I don't need further damage to my arm."

Aragorn gave him a steely look in return. "I have set many dislocations in my life. I assure you I am quite apt in the task."

They held eyes for a moment before the red-cloaked man's brow furrowed. "Maybe," he finally said. "Of course, we would need that knife of yours."

"Inner pocket of my tunic on the left side," he murmured, positioning himself near the other's chained hand. His companion reached forward and began to search, but his hand began to shake, causing the chain to clatter. "Are you well?" Aragorn asked softly in concern.

"Old injury," he replied quickly and immediately changed the topic. "What's your name?"

He did not say anything at first. By the time he came out of his thoughts, the other man had halted to peer up at him. "In this place, it is best that you know me as Strider," Aragorn finally answered.

His companion went back to searching for the knife. After a moment, he said, "Strange."

Despite himself, Aragorn's lips quirked into a small, wry smile. "Not many are so candid with me."

"No, that's my name." He sounded somewhat exasperated. "Doctor Stephen Strange. I — there. Got it." He slowly extracted the knife from the inner pocket of the tunic.

Aragorn kept as still as he could, for the man — Strange's — hand shook as he pulled out the hidden knife. It was but a utility knife with a small blade no longer than two inches, but against rope, it would do. "How long can you grasp it?"

"Long enough."

Whether he could or not, he had little choice in the matter. "Very well. Hold it as steady as you may." He slowly turned around and inched his arms backwards.

"You'll need to lower yourself about four inches — there — and just, move about an inch closer to me, slowly — here. Hold still."

He remained as still as he could with the somewhat unstable leg supporting an outright awkward position. Despite the shaky hand and uncertain hold upon the knife, he was nicked but once before the ropes were cut apart. Aragorn quickly brought his arms forward and tucked them under both armpits to help alleviate the pain of blood beginning to circulate throughout his limbs. He let himself fall to his knees to take pressure off his wounded leg. Once the pain was manageable, he turned to the cloaked man — _Strange_ , he reminded himself — and put a finger to his lips before slowly creeping forward. He cautiously leaned against the door and put an ear to it, listening.

"We are alone," Aragorn said softly after a moment, turning away from the door and approaching Strange once more. He ignored the throbbing in his leg as it protested its movement. "But I warrant they are not far — likely down the hall." He knelt in front of him, eyes carefully taking in his form. "Are you wounded elsewhere other than your head and shoulder joint?"

"Minor contusions across my torso and back," he answered methodically. "I don't think anything's broken." As Aragorn began to reach out towards him, Strange said quickly, "Are you _sure_ you know what you're doing? I would much rather have it set in a sling than risk further torn ligaments from an amateur's work."

Aragorn raised a brow. "As I told you, I have set many dislocations. They are a common battlefield wound."

Strange raised his brows in turn. "You're a combat medic?"

Despite the situation, something of a strange smile played at the corners of his lips. "When need called for it." At Strange's disgruntled look at his answer, he placidly lifted a hand. "I assure you, Master Strange, that I am very well-trained."

The other man looked very dubious, but all he said in reply was, "Doctor. Doctor Strange."

"I beg your pardon, Doctor Strange." He took a step forward, though paused as he caught movement in the corner of his eye beside the man's leg. When he saw nothing there, he turned his attention back to the other's arm. "It is an — an uncommon title."

Strange examined Aragorn as the other began to carefully examine his left arm. "It's not used around here?"

Aragorn gave him a strange look at the question. _Where are you from?_ he wondered, but aloud he answered, "It is not common. More preferred are healer or leech. On occasion you find one with the moniker of physician."

"Ah." He gritted his teeth as Aragorn carefully felt about the joint. He quickly then asked a question, likely to distract himself from the pain. "So what did you do… to end up… thrown so unceremoniously into this cell?"

He paused and studied Strange for a moment, a keen stare boring into his eyes. The other held the look. Eventually Aragorn seemed to make his mind up about him and said, "My company heard rumors of trouble in this part of Rhûn."

"Rhûn," he repeated after Aragorn, as if he were tasting it like a new food.

Aragorn nodded. "Our third day in this region brought an ambush in the evening. I was unfortunately separated from them." He then smiled grimly. "I suspect I am only alive so they may... extract information."

Strange made a face. "Pleasant." He looked again at his arm.

"And you?"

He twisted his eyes to Aragorn. "Uh…" He paused. "Well, it's… complicated. I can tell you I did not _mean_ to be here. I wasn't planning on coming near any civilization — as primitive as the civilization may be — but it seems that I was slightly off in my calculations, or timing…" He trailed off in thought.

He stared at him. "What do you mean?" Aragorn asked evenly.

"Well… I am not exactly from around here."

"That much is evident, Doctor Strange."

He quirked a brow. "Is it, Mister Strider?"

Aragorn snorted softly. "Quite."

"Well, I suppose I don't look much like the pleasant gentlemen that shackled me here, but that's beside the point. I believe I'm about ready to get out of here and I'm not in the mood to wait for them to return before getting out of here."

He raised both brows. "'About ready to get out of here,'" he repeated.

"Yes. I can do, uh, things — you know, it'll be easier if I just show you. I _should_ be able to do it now."

"Do—?" But before he could so much as finish his sentence, Strange's eyes rolled to the back of his head and he passed out.

* * *

"I've been doing some reading on these different dimensions."

Wong gave him a sharp look. "No, Strange."

Stephen Strange shot him an exasperated expression in return. "I was hardly finished!"

"I know that look. It is the same look you have whenever you have a bad idea."

"My ideas are not _bad_."

"Dangerous, then," Wong countered easily. "Jumping into different dimensions in the multiverse is no easy feat. There are many things that can go wrong."

He waved a hand dismissively and rounded the table Wong sat at — well, he was standing now. The library of the New York sanctum was empty, otherwise, and quite clean; one would never suspect that its entryway had been partially ruined less than a month ago.

Stephen placed a book down in front of him. "Between cleaning and resting, I've had plenty of time to thoroughly research a good dimension to start off on."

"Need I remind you," Wong began evenly, "that we have only just recovered from the attacks upon us? That we still have no Sorcerer Supreme?"

"I'm well aware of that," he answered coolly. "But to defeat any of these potential enemies that are looking to attack Earth, knowledge of dimensional travel is necessary. Better that I know how to travel _before_ we are attacked." Wong began to counter him, but the other sorcerer quickly cut him off. "Look, I've found a good place to start." He pointed to the pages of the open book. "See, this one — it's not an alternative timeline to modern Earth, so there is no need to worry about bumping into myself or someone who knows me. Its technology is primitive, the passage of time there nearly mirrors Earth, and it is known to support magic. It's perfect."

Wong peered closer, briefly, and shook his head. "Some sort of magic, but there has not been enough study done on which — that much is evident. You may very well end in a realm that does not support your powers!"

"You're worrying too much," Stephen said. "Look, there's even a map." He turned the page.

"There is barely anything labeled."

"Hardly matters," he answered. "As I said, it's primitive. It will be excellent practice." With that, he grabbed the book and moved away from the table purposefully. Wong frowned and followed him.

"This is a bad idea."

"You already said that."

"It is worth repeating!"

Stephen chuckled softly as he came to the foyer of the mansion. "You worry too much, Wong. I won't be gone long."

Wong shot him another look. "And how long do you plan to be gone from the sanctum?"

He shrugged. "No longer than a couple hours. I'd like to explore a bit."

His look did not falter. "So when the second hour passes by, I'll be sending someone after you."

"You won't need to send someone after me," Stephen retorted in annoyance. "You're not my mother, you know."

Wong did not look amused. He said nothing as the other sorcerer flipped the book to the beginning pages and, sling ring upon his left hand, began to conjure a portal in the middle of the room. As expected, the scene was not clear like the portals that took you around the Earth, but rather a strange blur. Looking quite pleased with himself when a portal took form almost immediately, he shot a smug look at Wong. "I'll see you soon."

Wong simply stared in disapproval.

With an overly cheerful wave, Stephen turned away from him and stepped through the portal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the transitions in time in this chapter are not too confusing. It is a little experimental.
> 
> I dedicate this chapter to Google and Wikipedia. Without your existence, casually researching topics I do not know about would be much more difficult.
> 
> I am not a medical practitioner. Any mistakes regarding medical terminology or procedures are my own.

He blinked against the sudden burst of sunlight that assaulted his eyes. Behind him he heard the portal close. _See, Wong? Easy._ His eyes quickly adjusted to the light and the smile that was playing on his lips quickly died as he found himself facing a great stone wall at least twice his height. _Civilization. Not ideal, but it doesn't seem like anyone is h-_

A sudden shout of alarm broke that thought. Stephen sharply twisted about and frowned when he saw three tall, dark tan walls in front of him.

_A courtyard. Of course it's a courtyard._

The shout seemed to come from a man not twenty yards in front of him, exiting from one of the smaller buildings of what looked to be a fairly large complex. He was dressed in some sort of red and dull gold armor, adorned with a helm that obscured all but his eyes, and armed with sword and spear. It was not exactly what one would call modern. _Like your own very modern clothing?_ a small voice broke through his thoughts. He ignored it.

To his right, several yards away, was the largest building of the complex: a two-story fort with a large base and steep, sloping roofs of a dull grey hue with long eaves. To his left was a heavy gate made of wood and iron sitting beside a small stable. In front of him the man had already drawn a sword.

It seemed the locals had no interest in making friends with him, and Stephen had no desire to stick around and try to parley with the warrior. He quickly jumped up to fly over the wall and out of the complex.

Or, at least, that was the plan. The Cloak of Levitation managed to get him about five feet off the ground before suddenly giving way, causing him to stumble back to the earth.

 _Shit._ He swiftly pulled himself off the ground. The soldier approaching him had paused, though he was too far away for Stephen to read his expression. It was then he noticed that there were men on top of the walls, also now staring at him.

 _Because those are ramparts, not walls_ , a part of his brain dutifully informed him. And those men were now moving quickly down the walls, more than likely to him. Behind him, he heard a horn sound.

He began to run, heading straight towards a narrow alley between one of the walls and the larger building. _Plan B_. He held his left hand straight forward and quickly began to make a portal - or, at least, tried. He managed to get a few sparks off, but found that he was having just as much difficulty as he did when he first came to Kamar-Taj.

Stephen gritted his teeth. Now was _not_ the time for magical difficulties. As he ran, he attempted to conjure a weapon, and found the same amount of problems creating a weapon as he had with creating a portal.

 _Fine. Plan C._ Still attempting to conjure _something_ , he began to round the building to make his way to the entrance of the compound. Unfortunately, the way was blocked by three of the soldiers, all dressed and armed similarly as the first one he encountered. Stephen looked behind him; four rounded the corner and closed in on him.

Not _ideal_ , per se, but his odds were not _impossible_.

He slowly took a defensive stance as he said, "I don't want to fight you! I am not your enemy!"

One of the soldiers snarled at him. "It is over, _tark_! Your lands shall wither and your king shall fall!"

 _Definitely not ideal._ "Hey, whoever you think I am, I'm not. I'm not a 'tark' - whatever that is. This is all a big misunderstanding." He tried to look as peaceful as possible while maintaining his semi-defensive position.

It did not do the trick. The soldier barked an order in a language Stephen did not understand, and suddenly two of the men were charging at him.

Well, they cannot say he did not try.

He ducked under the sword of the first one, managing to elbow him in the side and tripping him as the soldier was swinging for his head. The soldier fell to one knee. The second man sent his blade towards Stephen's side just as he managed to gain his footing again, and he leapt out of the way towards the wall. Attempting to conjure up a shield just brought about a lazy showering of sparks from his hand. This, however, gave all of the soldiers pause, and those closest backed up. One of them said something in their language, and two of them approached him again, this time more slowly.

The sparks seemed to have some effect, even if it was not the _intended_ effect. Regardless, Stephen tried to use this to his advantage. He suddenly moved forward to the one who spoke to him, attempting to create a shield once more. Once more he failed to succeed, but the man immediately backed away as he presumed he would, and he followed him with a quick shove towards the wall. Only one man stood in his way now, and this one he tried to shove aside with a quick elbow jab.

Unfortunately, the man dodged his incoming blow and quickly thrust his fist straight into Stephen's face. The sorcerer caught it in the mouth and his head swung to the side. Before he could regain his bearings, the man he had just shoved aside was back. The soldier quickly knocked the pommel of his blade against his forehead, causing him to stagger backwards.

Dazed and without working magic, it was easy for two more soldiers to bear down upon him. One grabbed at his left arm while another attempted to shove him down to the ground; with his body going one way and his arm held quite firmly, damage was inevitable. A sickening pop rang through the air before his shoulder exploded in a searing pain, causing spots to flash before his eyes. An involuntary cry of pain escaped him before he found himself shoved into the dirt. One of the men kicked at his stomach several times while he lay there helplessly.

By the time he recovered, he was being dragged off the ground by two men. The one on his left made no attempts to be gentle with his joint, and the flare of pain that sprang as he was dragged nearly caused him to pass out.

Fortunately - or perhaps, unfortunately - he did not fall to unconsciousness. It took him another moment to gather his senses beyond the pain, but once he did, he saw that he was now facing the threshold of the large building. Before him standing in the doorway was another man dressed in rich, red robes that matched the red of the soldiers' uniforms. The man was about his age, with dark grey hair and cold black eyes.

One of the soldiers stood beside him, speaking quietly in the strange language. He handed him something bright, and within a moment Stephen realized it was his sling ring. _That's not good._ The robed man examined it for a moment before putting it in a pocket, and the soldier continued speaking again.

Whatever he said seemed to perk the robed man's interest. He stepped forward and grasped Stephen's chin, twisting his fingernails into his jaw. The sorcerer gritted his teeth and held the other man's gaze silently.

"So, Gondor is sending sorcerers now," the man said to him. "Unexpected, but futile."

Stephen blinked. His head was terribly groggy; this was not the ideal time for any sort of interrogations. "What - no, look, this is all just-"

"- a misunderstanding," the robed man finished for him. "I am sure it is. It is this misunderstanding that brought a company of your country's soldiers to my lands, as well. Is that right?"

He exhaled slowly, partially to try and alleviate the throbbing in his head and the fire in his left shoulder. It did not work particularly well, especially considering breathing also caused his ribs to ache. _Well done, Stephen._ "I'm not from this- this Gondor."

The robed man narrowed his eyes at him. "Do not think to lie to me, _tark_. I have powers beyond your meager mind." He pressed his thumb against Stephen's forehead.

He cried aloud in pain as something akin to a shock wracked through his entire body. It lasted for but a couple seconds, but it was enough to take the remainder of his strength, leaving him hanging from the soldiers' firm grip. _Congratulations, you found another sorcerer_ , the annoying little voice inside his mind was happy to inform him.

Stephen managed to regain his bearings only to hear the end of the other sorcerer's words. "... should be arriving soon. Keep them together. I will deal with them later."

And with that, he was dragged into the building by four guards, one of which had a spear trained upon his back. As he did his best to keep his feet, his thoughts spun quickly through his head.

_Well, Wong will be happy to hear that he was right about the magical differences between the two dimensions. Of course, if Wong finds out about this, I'm never going to live it down. Best to escape before he comes looking for me. All I need is to find the correct way to manipulate the powers in this dimension. Shouldn't be too difficult._

One of the soldiers yanked on his left arm and he clenched his teeth to keep himself from crying out. _Not too difficult. Hopefully._

* * *

Aragorn's eyes widened in dismay. He swiftly brought two fingers to Strange's carotid artery upon his neck; the heartbeat was still quite strong. Lowering his hand, he gave the man's face one last cursory look before turning to the arm. _Better for him to be unconscious while this is being done_ , he decided.

He took a hold upon his arm. In the corner of his eye he saw movement from his other shoulder, and he paused. "Doctor Strange?"

No answer. _A trick of the light_ , he decided, and brought full focus again to the dislocated arm. It was difficult to do it completely effectively with the man still in chains, but he would make do.

As far as the chains would allow it, he flexed the left elbow slowly. Then he began to rotate his forearm with an external rotation in a manner more gentle than may be expected by what appeared to be a battle-hardened warrior. Aragorn then applied traction upon the humerus, slowly pulling downward upon it. When the involuntary spasms in Strange's arm significantly decreased, he carefully pulled his elbow across him as far as the other's chains would permit him to go. Finally, he ended it with rotating the arm internally before slowly releasing him.

"The Kocher maneuver. Archaic, but effective."

Aragorn nearly launched himself into Strange's limp form at the sudden voice behind him, but luckily for the other man, he just managed to avoid him as he leapt to his feet and backed up against the wall near him, his small utility knife at the ready. He found himself looking at the floating half-body of his cellmate.

Stephen Strange raised his hands placidly. "Do be careful with that knife."

He swerved his eyes to the man chained beside him. He was still there and still very unconscious. Aragorn's gaze went back to the image of the man floating three feet away from him. It was definitely him, though he bore no wounds. Looking between the two images of the man, Aragorn did not bother to mask his amaze - or his suspicion - in his next words. "What is this sorcery?"

"My astral projection," Strange answered patiently. "I was able to see what you were doing better from here."

That answered absolutely nothing. Tightening his grip upon the weapon, Aragorn pressed his lips into a fine line. He looked again at the prone form beside him.

Strange seemed to read his mind. "I am not your enemy, Mister Strider."

"Whom do you serve?" Aragorn retorted in turn, looking again between the two forms of Doctor Strange.

The doctor exhaled slowly. "No one. Well, no one here. I serve my world, if I serve anything."

His grip did not relent. "Your world," he repeated.

"It's complicated," Strange answered. "Like I said, I'm not from here. Where I am from would go far beyond your understanding." Aragorn frowned, and he quickly continued, "Look, we need each other to escape. There's a _lot_ of them out there and you'll have a better chance of surviving with me by your side."

Aragorn raised his brows at him. " _I_ would have a better chance?" he said dryly.

"Well, yes. As I said, there _are_ a lot of them, not to mention a sorcerer."

Now he lowered his knife, concern overcoming his suspicion. "They have a sorcerer?"

His astral form nodded. "Yup. He's different from what I've seen before, but I should be able to handle him." Aragorn looked down at the sorcerer's limp form, clearly unconvinced. Strange lightly scowled at him and continued, "Despite my arm, it _is_ better for you to have a sorcerer on your side. You won't get out of here without me."

Aragorn looked back to his form. Eventually he said, "Nor you without me."

"Possibly. It could be a little more challenging, I admit."

He remained still for a time. Finally he exhaled slowly and lowered his arm completely. "How many men does this sorcerer have?"

Strange pressed his lips together. "I'm not sure. I'll check." Before Aragorn could ask what he meant by that, he disappeared completely from sight.

 _Is this wise?_ he could not help but ask himself as he looked again at this Doctor Strange. _Sorcerers only served the Dark Lord. Of course, if he speaks truth when he claims not to be of this world…_ He let his thoughts trail off as he continued to study him.

Regardless, ally or foe, he eventually came to the realization that he could use an ally, especially against a sorcerer. Even if he thought Doctor Strange untrustworthy, he could not harm a chained, defenseless man. And there was some part of him, deep instincts borne over decades of dealing with all sorts of people, that felt that he was genuine.

As Aragorn stared at the man, he turned his attention to the wound on his head. With the shoulder taken care of with what little resources they had, seeing to that wound was the next step. He carefully lifted his hand towards Strange's face to get a better look at the gash on his forehead.

That was when the edge of the red cloak flew from the ground and blocked his approach.

Aragorn only just held back a shout of surprise, but he did not succeed in completely catching himself as he fell backwards from his crouched position. The ache that came with the fall was nothing compared to his shock at the sentient piece of clothing. The cloak hovered in place for a moment before slowly descending again into a resting position.

He made no further attempts in approaching the man. Indeed, he was quite happy to keep his distance for now.

He did not wait long for the sorcerer to return. In but a couple more minutes Strange appeared in front of him in his astral form just beside his limp body. To Aragorn's credit, he did not flinch outwardly at the sudden reappearance.

"Well, Mister Strider, I'm glad you didn't kill me," Strange said dryly in greeting.

"Your cloak moved."

"What? Oh, yeah. It does that. It's been a bit less lively since we came to your world, but I'm glad to hear it's back to its old self." He looked down at it; his collar shifted slightly as if in acknowledgement. "It seems it just needed some extra time as I did."

Aragorn raised a brow. "Extra time," he repeated.

"Yup. Oh, there are fifty-five men, all dressed as soldiers, and the one sorcerer. It seems we've been left alone because he's busy attempting to discover the secrets of my sling ring."

"Which is?"

"It's how I got here. To say he must not discover how to use it would be an understatement. If he figured out how it functions, it could be quite, uh, disastrous. However, we should remain undisturbed as long as he's kept occupied by it."

Aragorn nodded. "How much of the area were you able to search in your time away?"

"Every room, of course," Strange answered, sounding a little affronted. "As well as the walls and the exterior. I am not one to do a job half-done." He scoffed softly.

His brows rose high. "Just how large is this complex?"

"Fairly large. Two buildings surrounded by ramparts. Some stables. Do you know the area?"

He frowned as he considered it. "There are a few fortresses in the area. This could be any of them. What do our surroundings look like?"

Strange frowned, this time. "There was a forest to the south and east of us. I caught mountains in the distance in both directions."

Aragorn rubbed his chin. "That narrows it down a little, but not much." He looked back up at the sorcerer. "How did you search so quickly? You were gone for but a couple minutes."

"Ah, that." He shrugged as if it were nothing of significance. "I can travel faster than the normal passage of time in my astral form, should I choose to."

"I see."

"I sincerely doubt it."

Aragorn gave him an even look that seemed to have little effect on Strange. Ignoring the comment for now, he instead mused on his earlier words. "How far can you travel?"

"Very far." The sorcerer gave him a querying look. "Why?"

He waved a hand towards the wall. "My company is still out there looking for me. If you can travel quickly, you may be able to alert them before our captors return."

Strange looked intrigued. "Where are they?"

Aragorn shook his head. "I cannot know for certain, but from what you described, I would presume they are to the south or southwest of us. Should you follow the tracks leading from here, it will lead you in the right direction. They may very well be following those same tracks."

"That would be convenient," he answered. "Okay then. I'll try not to be too long." With that, he disappeared once more.

He exhaled slowly as Strange disappeared - or, one form of him disappeared. His normal body was still quite limp. He did not approach it, however, having no desire to test this magical cloak. Rather he began to slowly comb over their cell in search of some sort of forgotten shard of metal or sliver of loose stone that would serve as a good pick for the sorcerer's manacles.

The man would be of little use still chained as he was, after all.

* * *

Being chained to a wall with a dislocated shoulder was not the most unpleasant thing Stephen Strange has experienced in his life, but it certainly was not something he would volunteer to do again.

His captors were not exactly gentle when they forced him to the floor and his hands into the manacles. He waited until they the door of the cell was shut and their footsteps had faded off before he let out a low moan in pain. His cloak slightly fluttered, but just like he, it seemed out of sorts in this new world.

He took as deep a breath as his bruised rib cage permitted. _Focus, Stephen_ , he told himself. _The only way you're going to get out of this is if you can connect with the forces of this world. Focus._

And so the sorcerer closed his eyes and travelled deep within his mind's eye. He fell into a heavy meditation, the same sort that helped him better work through the trials of Kamar-Taj and outright survive the aftermath of his encounter with Dormammu. His ability to find sleep being utterly shattered by the horrific images of his many deaths, it was only through meditation that he found any resemblance of rest these days.

It was to that place he travelled again; the rest of his surroundings and the intense pain within his head, his arm, his hands, they all faded as he sought the currents that wove the magical fabric of this universe. It left him all but oblivious to the waking world, with only some sort of great stimuli being able to break his concentration.

That stimuli came in the form of the cell door being thrown open. Stephen could not say how much time had passed since he had begun meditating, but to say he was frustrated would be an understatement. He was at the _cusp_ of discovering this world's functions only to be rudely interrupted by these barbaric imbeciles.

He quickly discovered - and for this, he was admittedly grateful - that they came not for him, but rather to dispose another prisoner into the cell. The unconscious man was unceremoniously tossed to the ground, where his head thudded against the stone floor with a painful-sounding thump. Stephen could not help but wince sympathetically.

The soldiers shot him suspicious looks before leaving the cell, locking the thick wooden door behind them. Stephen allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark once more as he examined his brand new cellmate.

The man looked to be about his age, if not a little older; there was about the same amount of grey on his head, though scattered about his otherwise dark, shoulder-length hair. In the dim light he could make out nasty bruising on his tanned face. A trickle of dried blood led to his forehead, but the wound was obscured by his hair and the darkness around them.

He wore some sort of leather tunic over a dark linen shirt. That, his dark pants, and his overall position made it impossible to determine other wounds. He was alive, at the least; he did not carry the slackness dead men bore. That, and his hands were bound tightly behind his back. Dead men were not usually bound.

Stephen sighed. However the man was hit, he did not look to be stirring soon, and so the sorcerer closed his eyes and resumed his meditation. He was very close to finding the flow of power within this world. With a bit more time, he would have it.

With luck, it would be before Wong got worried and sent someone after him. Having to be rescued in his first trans-universe experience would just be embarrassing.


	3. Chapter 3

The track was easy to find. A dirt road that started at the gate of the compound was covered in prints, obvious enough that even New Yorker Stephen Strange could very well tell they were hoofprints. The road seemed little traveled otherwise; the occasional footprint was all but erased by the march of hooves as the trail moved southward away from the fortress.

They proved easy to follow, too. The road ran a fairly straight path south-east through a batch of woods. There were no crossroads and, indeed, no other signs of civilization. _Why couldn't I land out here?_ he asked himself wryly. _Well, at least my calculations weren't completely off; this forest_ is _in the middle of nowhere._

A forest that also held a hostile fortress, but that was beside the point.

Stephen ignored his thoughts and pushed himself quicker along the clearly-marked trail. It was not until several minutes had passed that he came across his first complication. He slowed to a halt, frowning. The clear tracks on the road swerved away into the woods, quickly fading into a woody undergrowth. A less-than-easy-to-find-tracks undergrowth.

 _Well, this can't be_ too _difficult_ , he figured as he pushed forward. _It's a bunch of damn horses._

It turned out that it was difficult

The undergrowth was filled with the late fall foliage of dried, cracked leaves. He quickly discovered that, at least to Doctor Stephen Strange, cracked leaves look the exact same no matter how many damn horses walked through them.

After several minutes of attempting to find the trail of hoofprints in the dead leaves and completely failing to accomplish this task, he exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. _Think. Strider said they’ll be south or southwest, so..._ He opened his eyes and immediately moved in that direction; he had no more time to waste and that was somewhere to begin.

He continued to scan the forest ground for anything that resembled a hoofprint. To be fair, he actually found several leaves that _may_ have been hoofprints, but also could have simply been the normal cracking of a leaf. The small areas clear of leaves, few and far between, showed him nothing.

As time continued to pass with little change, Stephen’s mood swiftly dropped from tolerable to… not.

 _Where’s a damn boy scout when I need one?_ he thought moodily, swaying left and right as he generally headed in a south, south-west direction. His eyes continued to scan the ground and on occasion he accidentally went through a tree. _This must be one of the only times in history that one of those annoying little brats would be of any use. Make campfires! Track animals! Don’t get lost! Not that I’m lost, of course, I still know where the stupid fort is…_

Stephen paused, then left the forest floor to go make sure he could still see the stupid fort.

He rose until he spotted it. It was a bit more directly south than he thought he was going. Once he came back to the ground, he changed his trajectory to go a bit more westward.

By the time the sorcerer moved his grumblings away from boy scouts to the girl scout cookies that should have never come into existence because they tasted like caramelized cardboard, he found a hoofprint. An actual, perfectly clear hoofprint.

“I knew I was going in the right direction,” he told himself with a smirk. His smile only widened when he came across another one, and quickly after that, another one. Soon there was a clear, jumbled trail of deep prints in the patches of dirt amongst the piles of dead leaves.

The reason for their reappearance soon became evident. He heard the flow of water before he actually saw it, and within a few minutes he came across a stream. When he crossed directly over to the other side, however, he found absolutely no prints.

Stephen’s smile fell to a deep frown. _Damn it. Who travels down a stream riding_ horses.

 _These people, clearly_ , he quickly found when more searching revealed no continuation of the prints. He exhaled slowly and looked to the east, then the west. Frown still etched into his features, he rose again high above the stream to find the fort once more.

He was now all but perfectly south-west of the structure, perhaps three miles away from it. Easy enough to get back to. Now he just had to decide on a course.

 _South or south-west_ , he thought to himself. _Those directions don’t help at all here, Strider. Don’t suppose you could have been a little more specific?_ He stilled his grumbling mind and looked down both directions of the stream once more. After a moment of floating above the water, he finally came to a decision.

_West first for a few miles. If I see nothing, turn around and try the other route. That shouldn’t take too long in normal time._

_This travelling faster than time thing is really useful._

He turned west and quickly made his way along, moving much faster than he did through the forest. Finding several hoofprints in the wet mud on the south bank of the stream was bound to be much easier to spot. As he travelled above the slowly-flowing water, Stephen continued to muse about the usefulness of astral dimensional travel. After all, if he _was_ forced to travel in real time, he was pretty certain that Wong would have already come and found him in his less-than-desirable situation.

_Then he’d stare at me, leave, and come back with a few acolytes to teach them how to avoid scenarios similar to what the new master of the New York Sanctum has landed himself in. Then he’d probably take them on a field trip around this dimension, have them take notes, and give them a pop quiz before finally bothering to help out._

The less bitter part of Stephen’s mind immediately laughed at him for being utterly ridiculous. He shoved it away. He _was_ annoyed about this whole situation, no matter how petty the annoyance, and that was not changing until he found this group of Strider’s, wherever the hell they were.

He really hoped they were down this direction, following the same tracks he was. Deep down, beyond what he would openly admit to himself, he was very nervous about leaving his body alone and in a hostile environment for so long. For all he knew, their captors had already returned and were about to kill him right now.

Not a very cheerful thought.

But fortune was finally on Stephen’s side and in more than one regard. About a mile down the quiet stream he came across not only a large amount of hoofprints upon the southern bank, but a large group of men gathered right beside them.

Rising a little higher to see them better, he quickly took in the scene. There was twenty-two men, the majority of them still on their horses; four individuals in the front of the procession were dismounted, one of them kneeling and studying the tracks carefully. They were dressed in heavy leather surcoats worn over what looked like chainmail, and over half of them wore hoods over their heads. Stephen raised his brows at the amount of weaponry each individual seemed to possess just outwardly; remembering Strider’s hidden knife, he imagined there was more that he could not see.

He came in closer to get a better look at their faces, floating over to the four men that were not on their horses.

_Wow, they all look like Strider._

Well, not _exactly_ like Strider, of course, but there was definitely some resemblances. And one of them was so close that he could very well be his brother. Maybe he _was_ his brother. Stephen squinted at him for a moment longer before nodding in satisfaction as he backed up once more. _If this isn’t his company, I’ll join the boy scouts._

Stephen closed his eyes and willed his astral form back into the regular passage of time. The sounds of the forest, muffled from the speed that he travelled before, came to life about him. More importantly, he could now hear what the men were saying.

“-same group of riders from the site of ambush,” said the one kneeling upon the ground.

“Are you sure of it?” asked one of the men standing beside him. He sounded tense.

“I am sure of it, Captain Galdir.” The tracker rose and looked not to Galdir, but to the man that looked eerily similar to Strider. “Unfortunately I cannot determine which way they went from here, my lord; the tracks show some horses turned left, others forward, and others right.”

Stephen raised a brow at the title. _Someone important, then._ He floated in closer as Strider’s possible close relative answered, “So I see myself.”

“At least it is clear they did not go forward,” said the fourth man. “I am no tracker, but even I can see that there are no prints upon the far bank. They must have travelled in the stream.”

“That does not tell us where they went, Beregond,” Galdir said tersely. “Any delay could-

He was interrupted by one of the horses, which neighed nervously, sidestepping away towards the right. Stephen blinked and looked at the horse as it stepped away from him. _Do animals sense me?_ he wondered. _I should look further into that._

But that was for a later time. The animal’s sudden nervousness caused every single man in that company to tense; some had bows drawn and nocked, while others had their hands ready upon the pommels of their swords. Galdir, who stood beside the nervous horse, drew his sword free from its sheath. The man called Beregond, still standing beside Strider’s lookalike, did the same.

Strange sighed. _Well, there’s nothing for it. At least they can’t do anything to me._

And thank God they couldn't, because the moment he broke through into reality and began to speak, Galdir immediately plunged a sword into his astral stomach.

“Are y-” He stopped talking and involuntarily flinched when the man swung about and stabbed him straight through. “Really now, that would have hurt,” he said once he got past his initial surprise.

Galdir pulled his sword back, staring at Stephen slack-jawed. In the meanwhile, the reaction from the company was very mixed. Beregond and the tracker immediately stood in front of the almost-Strider-double, blocking him from the sorcerer. Many of the horsed men shouted in alarm at his sudden appearance, some of them instinctively backing away. Others quickly surrounded him instead, and in less than a minute he found himself encircled by the horsemen with many arrows pointed right at him.

“Arrows will have the same effect as a sword,” he said helpfully. Or, at least, what he thought was helpfully. Their expressions clearly showed that they did not take it that way. To try and calm them down, he raised his hands placidly. “I’m not your enemy.”

Strider’s lookalike stepped around the two men blocking him from Stephen. His own sword was drawn, but he held it down towards the ground. The man stared at the sorcerer’s floating half-body in a calculated manner. Stephen met his stare right back, keeping his hands slightly raised.

When the man spoke to Stephen, it carried a heavy tone of authority. _Definitely a leader type._ “Who are you? Are you some manner of spirit?” To his credit, he kept his voice even, as if this were a perfectly normal situation.

Stephen exhaled; this was no time for explanations that they would not understand. “Uh, not exactly. Look, I don't have a lot of time. Are you Strider’s company?”

Some confusion joined the suspicion and bewilderment on many of their faces and he slightly frowned at their reaction. _Of course, of all the groups of Strider lookalikes, I found the wrong one._

However, the man paused a moment at the question before saying, “Describe this Strider.”

Stephen slowly lowered his arms as he spoke. “Well, he's tall. Really tall, which is saying something for me. Near my age, maybe a decade older.” He paused. “Uh, dark brown, maybe black shoulder-length hair, greying some. Beard. He sounds a lot like you.” _Looks like you’re related to him_ , he did not say.

In the corner of his eye Stephen caught a couple of the younger men shifting, expressions changing from bewilderment to hopefulness, but Strider’s lookalike remained expressionless. “Did he bear any distinguishing marks or give you instructions for us?”

“Instructions? To help him get out, but I figured that would be obvious.” Beregond bristled in anger at his tone. Stephen ignored him. “And there were no distinctive mar- actually, no. I take that back. I noticed a rather long scar on his left wrist when I cut his ropes.”

Many of the men's expressions darkened at the end of his words. The leader frowned. “That is him. Where can he be found?”

Stephen turned and pointed to the northeast, more towards the east than north. “You were on the right track. If you go in a straight line from here in that direction, you'll come across a large fort in… three miles, perhaps. Maybe four or five. It's mostly trees from here to there.”

Strider’s possible relative gazed at him, studying him in the same manner as the man he so much resembled had studied him a short time ago. Then, as if making a decision, he nodded once. “You have my thanks for this information, Master…?”

“Doctor.” The man blinked at Stephen in faint confusion, the first show of any real emotion from him since the sorcerer had appeared in thin air. “Doctor, not master,” he clarified, before saying, “I'm Doctor Strange.”

“Doctor Strange,” he repeated slowly.

Stephen exhaled. “Yeah. And you?” A name was more preferable than ‘man who looks like Strider’s potential brother’.

Beregond bristled again at the sorcerer’s flippant tone and Galdir raised his brows at him. Their leader, if he was bothered by it, did not show it. “I am Faramir. You can tell Strider that we will be there as quickly as possible.”

Galdir - who had put a sword through his middle, and he would _not_ forget that - suddenly spoke. “If you want to aid- Strider,” Stephen heard the hesitation before he spoke his name, “then why have you not helped him out of his peril?”

He sighed again. “Because my physical form is currently chained to a wall in the same cell he is in. He simply thought it might be a good idea to point you fellows in the right direction.”

Galdir outright stared at him at the response. Faramir spoke before he could speak again. “Do you have any other information that may aid us? The layout of the area, the number of men?”

Stephen answered, “There’s only one entrance into the fort. It faces south. There are two buildings inside; we're in the larger one on the lowest floor, underground. You’ll find a stairwell in the southwest corner of the building. Once you descend you make the second right, then your first left, and then go three doors down the hall. Left side.” He paused, then continued, “As for numbers, I counted fifty-five soldiers and a sorcerer.”

Beregond finally spoke. “One of your kind? For that is what you are, is it not?” Disdain rolled off his question.

Stephen outright rolled his eyes. “We’re _obviously_ not on the same side.”

He began to respond, but Faramir held up a hand for peace and Beregond kept quiet. He turned again to Stephen. “This sorcerer you speak of is ill news.”

He heard the unspoken question in Faramir’s words. “Leave him to me.” Stephen ignored the tiny voice in the back of his head reminding him of his numerous injuries upon his physical form.

Faramir nodded once. “Very well then. We shall make our way there immediately.”

Stephen smiled. “ _Wonderful_. I’ll go tell Strider the good news. I’ll see you shortly.” With that, he pulled his astral body back from the physical realm.

He floated above the ring of horses and, before making his way back to his body, paused to make sure they were actually going. It would be quite embarrassing if they never showed up because they misheard his directions or outright did not believe him.

Faramir immediately sheathed his sword and strode to his horse. The three other men quickly followed.

“Do you believe him, my lord?” asked Beregond as he moved. “Sorcerers worked only with the Enemy during the War!”

“So they did, Beregond,” Faramir answered as he swung himself into the saddle with a practised ease. “But for what purpose would this one come to us with such instructions? He has clearly spoken to Elessar; I know the name Strider and I know that scar.” Stephen furrowed his brow at ‘Elessar’.

Beregond quickly answered, “He may be misdirecting us so as to lead us away from the king.”

Stephen blinked.

“It is a risk we must take,” said Galdir, seemingly out of his shock now. He was already on his horse. “We have come to the end of the tracks and we must take this chance to find King Elessar.”

“Captain Galdir is correct,” Faramir said before Beregond could argue. “This is our best lead from here. I read no lie in his eyes. Despite the… unusual delivery of the message, I believe it to be wholly true. Let us go.”

The conversation came to an end and the company quickly crossed the stream before turning northeast. Stephen watched them leave.

_Well. That was unexpected._

He remained there for a short moment before letting the world fade away and beginning his much quicker journey back to his body.

_Very unexpected._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merriam-Webster and auto-spellcheck do not agree if it's hoofprint or hoof print. I decided to listen to Merriam-Webster.
> 
> I know Strange’s character is originally from Nebraska, but by the time we see him in the film, he seems comfortably like a New Yorker.
> 
> I don’t know if the comics discuss animals sensing Strange’s astral form, but I think it would be interesting if they had that perception and so I threw it in.
> 
> Faramir’s resemblance to Aragorn stems from a line from Appendix A, which comments upon the similarities of Denethor and Aragorn both in looks and intelligence. It did not seem too far of a stretch.
> 
> Galdir is an OC I plucked from my older LOTR fics.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I thought this was going to be 4 chapters long when I first started this story, I have found that it is definitely going to be longer. If I had to guess, it looks to be about twice that length, though I cannot say how far the story will go.
> 
> Chapter 5 is taking a bit longer to write than previous chapters. I will attempt to have it out before the end of the year.

It took several minutes of thorough searching before Aragorn found what appeared to be a very old, unusually long needle. It was covered in a substance that looked suspiciously like ancient blood.

Ignoring the implications of its former usage, he placed it against the hard floor and began to bend it with his thumb and forefinger with as much force as he could manage. It took several minutes - and the soft, but incessant pounding in his head did not make things easier - but after much bending and twisting he split the needle in two.

That was the worst of it. Aragorn then quickly worked to bend the tips of each piece into a right angle without breaking them. It was tedious work, but eventually his efforts paid off. He picked up both pieces and made his way over to Strange, though hesitated as he eyed the red cloak. It wasn't moving… currently.

Time was of the essence. Exhaling lowly, he slowly approached as if he were stepping up to a skittish animal. When he was about two feet away, the collar twitched. He paused and stared. While it was posed unnaturally, it was not moving, and so he carefully took another step closer towards Strange's left arm.

Now it shifted more. The left side of the cloak flew upwards and its end curled towards its master's arm in what almost seemed a protective manner.

Aragorn paused again. With time ticking away, he pushed aside the feeling of foolishness and tried another tactic. "I'm here to help him," he told the red fabric. He lifted the two bent needle halves. "I'm here to free him."

_Stars above, you are talking to a cloak._

The cloak did not move; Aragorn remained still in return. After about a minute, it slowly descended to the floor and back into a more natural position.

"Thank you," he said, more as a matter of habit than actually believing the cloak really understood him _because it was a bloody cloak_. He carefully knelt beside Strange's left hand and - ignoring the ache that still throbbed in his left leg - brought up the makeshift pick and tension wrench to the manacle and began to pick at it.

As he worked, he noticed the numerous long scars upon the sorcerer's hand. His brow furrowed at the sight. _What caused such an injury?_ From what he could see, they looked like the work of a talented healer - but surely it was not under a surgical knife that they came to be. After one last look, he pulled his thoughts away from the unusual scars and back to the manacle.

Aragorn was not at it for longer than a minute when Strange suddenly opened his eyes. He then grimaced in pain. "Ow."

He raised a brow at him. "Welcome back. Are you alright?"

"Yeah. I just forgot how sore I am." Strange made a face to himself, then peered up at his left hand. "Where did you find that?" he asked as he eyed the makeshift pick.

"I found a needle under some of the hay. It makes a convenient pick with minor adjustments." Aragorn turned his gaze back to the manacle and started working on the lock once more. He noted Strange's hand slightly began shaking as it had earlier, but did not comment upon it. "Did you find my company?"

"I did. They are three to five miles southwest of us. They're riding here now."

"That is good news."

"Quite."

Strange fell silent, but Aragorn could still feel his eyes upon him.

The silence did not last for long at all. "So…"

Aragorn raised a brow at the pause without turning from his work.

"... royalty, huh?"

He exhaled. _He was bound to figure out sooner or later._ "Yes." Aragorn instinctively looked towards the door.

Strange scoffed in turn. "Don't worry, the guards are nowhere near. I'm not an idiot. They're still far down the hall and the sorcerer is still playing with my sling ring, though he seemed rather frustrated with it." He smirked slightly, before sobering and stating evenly, "I suppose it's only a matter of time until his impatience overrides his pride and he comes demanding answers."

Aragorn gave him a wry look and began on the manacle once more without replying. The shaking in the left hand had disappeared, for now.

The silence did not deter Strange in the slightest. "And you're a king at that?"

"Yes." He kept his eyes on the lock.

"... where does a king learn how to pick locks?"

Aragorn could not help but snort softly in amusement. "I was not always a king."

"You know very well what I mean. Unless in your kingdom the skill of lock picking is considered a very princely art."

His lips quirked. "Not in Gondor, no. But it certainly has its uses."

Strange's eyes lit up with recognition. "Oh, so you're from Gondor?"

"Yes." A click. Aragorn smiled slightly and held Strange's left arm before releasing it. He carefully lowered it to his side. "How is your shoulder?"

"It doesn't feel like bubbles and sunshine, but I'll manage."

Aragorn snorted quietly, then moved to his right manacle to begin the process anew. His brow furrowed as he noticed that his right hand bore very similar scars to his left. It, too, shook in the manacle slightly. Turning his gaze back to the lock, he asked Strange, "You then have heard of Gondor before?"

"The sorcerer mentioned it. He thought I was from there." A pause. "He knew your company was here."

Aragorn frowned. "So I suspected myself. The ambush was too well-organized. Somehow he must have heard of our coming."

Strange lifted his brows. "So, you're… not supposed to be in this area?"

"It is a complicated situation involving several factions around here." Aragorn pressed his lips together. "Rhûn has only managed a fragile stability in the last few years."

"I see." Strange fell silent for a moment. "You know, actually, along with mentioning Gondor, they called me something weird."

"What did they say?"

He frowned thoughtfully. "They called me a... tark, I think. Yeah, that sounds right."

Aragorn frowned at the response. "It is a rather unfriendly epithet for the people of Gondor and of similar heritage. You do bear resemblance to a Gondorian."

"Ah." Another click. Strange looked over as Aragorn opened the other manacle. He let his right arm fall to the side. "Thank you," he said, carefully rubbing at each wrist. The sorcerer slowly picked himself off the ground. His cloak spread out widely, as if stretching, before falling to a natural position.

Aragorn simply nodded and leaned back against the wall, spreading his left leg out. He lightly massaged his thigh a few inches from the wound and took a moment to gather his strength before trying his luck on the cell door.

The silence sat for a brief moment as he rested his leg and Strange began a slow series of movements with his arms and hands. The sorcerer grimaced, but did not stop.

Eventually Strange exhaled and looked down at his hands thoughtfully. "So… King Strider then?"

His lips quirked. "No. Strider was but a moniker in days long past. My given name is Aragorn."

Strange frowned. "I thought I heard them say something else. King Elessar?"

"Elessar is my regnal name."

Strange turned away from him to face the other wall. "Oh, uh, like a house name?"

"No." He did not conceal all of his amusement as he answered. "The name of my house is Telcontar."

Strange began the movement of his arms once more, this time a bit faster. "So you have four names?"

Now he chuckled. "Many more than that over the course of my lifetime."

Strange snorted. "Aren't you just a Picasso."

"I beg your pardon?"

He sighed. "Never mind." Falling completely silent, he did the series of gestures once more with even more speed.

Aragorn's eyes widened as a bright orange circle filled with many shapes and strange runes that he did not recognize came from the sorcerer's right hand. It remained present for about five seconds before sputtering out like a flame.

"Oh, come on," Strange growled in clear annoyance. He started anew and Aragorn watched in complete fascination as he went through the same series of complicated gestures and movements once more. Again the circle filled with runes came up and lasted a few seconds before sputtering out again. And so he did them again, and again, and again. Aragorn eventually lost count.

After several minutes of repeating the same gestures, the shield came up again, and this time it stayed solid upon his hand. Strange muttered, "Finally," as he moved his right arm back and forth, testing his range of motion and keeping a careful eye on his creation as he walked around. It remained put. He exhaled, smiling in satisfaction.

"What… exactly is that?" Aragorn asked as he picked himself off the ground. His leg ached, but it held his weight.

"Shield," he answered, finally allowing the orange circle to disappear. "I don't usually have such difficulty procuring them, but this world is rather testy with its forces. There are _many_ forces here but they are a bit… stubborn."

"Stubborn."

"Yeah. Stubborn." He began another series of movements; Aragorn had seen the last round of gestures enough times to realize this one was something different. "And as everyone here seems quite interested in stabbing me with something, a shield seemed like a good place to start." His palms began to glow orange once more.

Aragorn stared at the man's hands before looking towards the entrance. "Would your sorcery work against the door?"

The glow faded as Strange broke his thought process and looked to the door with a frown. "Eventually, but at this rate, it might take several hours."

"I think I may be a little faster," he said dryly.

"Probably," answered the sorcerer in the same tone. He began the gestures once more.

He only hesitated a moment before turning his back towards him as he faced the door. _If he wanted to kill you, he would not have bothered to find help, Aragorn._ He shook his head softly and knelt beside the door to work on the lock.

Despite logic telling him that the man behind him - _who just happened to be a sorcerer_ \- has done everything to show that he really was no enemy, he could not still nerves and instincts honed over the decades. As Aragorn attempted to work, he heard every strange electric spark emitting into the air, every time the other man moved, every time that enchanted cloak _swooshed_ -

He heard the tight hiss of pain and the sound of dying sparks. Aragorn swiftly looked over his shoulder and caught Strange supporting his left arm, wincing in discomfort.

"Are you well?" he asked, frowning softly.

Strange immediately straightened and schooled his expression at Aragorn's look. "Yes, fine. You - you keep doing that. Don't mind me."

Aragorn raised his brows at him. The sorcerer mirrored his expression. He gave Strange a final knowing look before turning back towards the door. He started on the lock once more, and behind him he heard the sparks begin anew. Not a minute had yet passed before a sharp hiss of pain interrupted the electrical buzz and the sounds died down.

He looked over his shoulder again and once more caught Strange holding his left arm. Aragorn took the pick and wrench out of the keyhole, pocketed them, and straightened before turning to the other man. "Let me help."

"Help?" He snorted. "Unless you're hiding some ibuprofen somewhere, there's not really much you can do to _help_."

Feeling his patience slip further, Aragorn found himself stepping closer and lowering his voice. "Let me help." It was not so much a request as it was a command. Perhaps it was unprecedented, pulling what his wife fondly called his 'kingly presence' upon Strange, but the man was so _damn stubborn_ and he could hardly hear the lock if the sorcerer kept hissing in pain.

Strange slowly leaned back, brows raised as he looked Aragorn up and down. His cloak had… tensed, for lack of better word. _Yes, definitely as tense as its master._ Aragorn kept the sorcerer's gaze, expression unrelenting.

The other man exhaled slowly. "Fine. What do you think you can do to help?"

Aragorn relaxed slightly. "Here," he said, his voice softer now. He brought his right hand up to Strange's left shoulder.

"Uh…" The sorcerer trailed off. "What are you-"

"Just - stop. Relax." _Bloody stubborn man._ Aragorn resisted shaking his head and instead closed his eyes.

There was an old saying, once considered doggerel in Gondor, that _the hands of the king are the hands of a healer_. As is often the case in old tales, there is a hint of truth to even the strangest of stories. In Aragorn's case, the line of kings bore abilities that other Men did not bear, talents that went back all the way through their ancestry to their foremother Lúthien the Fair. He had the great fortune of learning to harness these abilities by another one of her descendants and possibly the greatest healer of the Third Age. Elrond had spent many years teaching him the healing arts, including those that were unique to their shared heritage.

And so it was that, when Aragorn opened his eyes and pulled his hand away, Doctor Strange was giving him a very, very baffled look.

"... _what_ did you just do?"

He could not help but smirk a bit at his expression and tone. This was certainly not a man used to being baffled. "Are you feeling better?"

" _Yes_ , and I want to know _how_ you did that."

Aragorn chuckled quietly. "It is part of my bloodline. It comes from one of my distant ancestors." Before Strange could say anything to that, he gestured to his hands. They were still slightly shaking. "What of your hands?"

Strange's former thought died as he pressed his lips together tightly and looked down upon them. "Old injury, as I said earlier," he answered stiffly.

"I saw the scars. They are unlike anything I have seen before."

"The procedures done on my hands are likely more advanced than any medical technology here, unless your people are in the habit of using stainless steel pins in several-hour reconstructive surgeries," he answered tersely. "Not that they did any good." Strange turned away from him and started a series of gestures again.

Aragorn raised his brows. "Several-hour reconstructive surgeries," he repeated. "It seems to be a miracle that you kept your hands at all."

"Don't you have a lock to pick?" he retorted sharply in return without looking at him.

He stared at Strange's back for a moment. _Not worth my time._ Expression schooled to one of neutrality, Aragorn said nothing as he turned back to the door and began on the lock again.

The silence sat heavily between them, interrupted only by the sound of soft sparks. He did not bother to look back to see exactly what he was doing. Instead, he kept his ear close to the door, carefully listening for that quiet click. It was, unfortunately, proving to be a lot more difficult of a lock than those on the manacles.

The hiss of sparks died down after a few minutes. Eventually, Aragorn heard him say softly, "Thank you, by the way." It sounded sincere. A pregnant pause followed. "Uh, your majesty."

He snorted softly at the uncertain addition and shook his head. "In here, just call me Strider," he insisted quietly. "Should we be successful in this, my given name is fine beyond these walls. And," he slightly smiled, "you are welcome, Doctor Strange."

"Call me Stephen," he answered. The sound of sparks began anew. "Say, I don't suppose you have anything I could borrow?"

Aragorn now looked behind him. His brows rose at the sight of several bright lines of orange light connected between Strange's hands; it reminded him of a spider's thick webbing. "Ah - borrow?" he asked after recovering from the sight.

"Something, anything," he answered. "Something you don't mind being thrown around. My pockets are quite empty."

"Ah…" _Why does he believe I have anything? The only thing I have is my knife-_

"Something like your knife would be perfect."

 _There it is._ "I might need it." He quickly amended, "I will definitely need it."

"I won't damage it. Well, as long as throwing it up and down does not damage it, which it really shouldn't."

Aragorn hesitated briefly before unlacing the small sheath from his belt and holding it out to him. Strange let the tendrils of light disappear and took it with a nod. "Thanks." He kept it sheathed as he placed it on the ground, then stepped back a few feet. Aragorn continued to watch as he stretched out his hands and the bright lines that connected between his fingers appeared again.

Suddenly the sorcerer broke his right hand away and whipped part of the orange light towards the knife. It was pushed back a bit. Frowning, he whipped at it again. It bounced. "Why - is - this - not - working?" he gritted out as he continued to strike at the sheathed knife with each pause.

"What are you trying to do?" Aragorn asked as he watched the bright light fly from his fingers.

"Grab it," he said shortly. "This should-" He struck out at it again. "-be easier-" And again. "-than this." Strange glowered at the knife, as if it was its fault. "How's the door coming?"

"It is not," Aragorn said with a frown. He turned again to the door and started upon it again.

"Uh huh." The soft strikes behind him continued. "So, those fellows out there don't know who you are, is that right?"

He raised a brow to himself. "They do not."

"I suppose they're expecting you to be in your castle or wherever you live."

Aragorn's lips quirked. "Citadel."

Another crackle of sparks flew in the air behind him. "Right. So if you're not there, who is ruling your country?"

"My son has recently come of age. He, my wife, and the Steward's son should be doing well in this time of peace." _Why is this lock so difficult?_

"You're in a time of peace?" Aragorn could _hear_ him raising his brows in disbelief.

He cleared his throat. "Well, we _were_. It is difficult to predict what shall happen from here, but my Steward is, if anything, a most diplomatic tactician. If this can be smoothed over, I warrant he will find that way."

"Ah." Another crack struck behind him. "And by Steward you mean…?"

"He is my right-hand man. Faramir has a way with diplomacy that I have seen in no other man."

"Oh, _him_. Are you related to him?" The fizz of sparks snapped past him again, and this time he heard a quiet, "About time," before the soft clatter of something dropping a short distance hit his ears.

Aragorn slightly turned his head just to catch his knife stop moving. He looked back to the door again. "We are not related."

"You very well could be. He looks and acts like you." Again he heard the sound of the sparks behind him before it was followed by the quiet clatter of the knife. "I also spoke with a, uh, Beregond and Galdir." He heard the amusement in Strange's tone as he continued, "Do you know them?"

He smiled slightly. "Very well. Beregond is the captain of the lord Faramir's guard, and Galdir of my own."

"Well, that explains his anxiety. He hasn't done a very good job guarding you, has he?"

Aragorn slightly shook his head without taking his eyes off the lock. "The situation was not his fault." _This conversation is probably not helping my concentration._

"Doesn't mean he's not terribly jumpy." Strange caught the knife again and let it hang in the air for a moment. He let his line on the item recede and grow time and again until he finally let the knife drop. "When I first came out to see them, he stabbed me before I could get much of a word in."

"That sounds like Galdir," Aragorn answered, then paused to glance over at Strange. The sorcerer had moved from picking up the knife to creating shields once more. "How is your shoulder holding?"

"Very manageable, considering," he answered, then paused to look over at him. "How are your head and leg?"

Aragorn grimaced slightly. The pounding in his head remained a soft ache, while his leg was enduring his weight without too much complaint. "Manageable," he said in turn.

Strange gestured at him with one of his shielded hands. "Can you do that thing that you did to me to yourself?"

"Unfortunately not. Not without supplies." _Surely this lock is almost broken…_

"Then teach me and I'll do it for you." Strange released his shield and picked up the sheathed knife.

Aragorn snorted quietly at the suggestion. "It is not something that can be taught."

"Maybe not to people who do not understand the forces of the world," Strange retorted. "I'm not one of those people. I understand the workings of the multiverse very well."

His brow furrowed, though he kept his eyes upon the lock. "If by forces you mean _magic_ , I assure you it is not that. It is a gift-"

"-from your bloodline, yeah, you said so before," he interrupted. "And I'm calling bullshit." Aragorn _now_ turned from the lock to stare at the sorcerer, who was staring right back at him, fiddling with the knife. "Whether you call it magic, sorcery, a gift, a program, it hardly matters. It's the same thing and you have knowledge of it."

He felt his annoyance growing once more. "That does not mean it is something that can be taught."

Strange shrugged with his right arm. "Maybe. Still, why did you react to sorcery so dramatically when you carry a similar type of power in your own blood?"

Aragorn frowned. "If you are suggesting I am a sorcerer-"

He snorted. "Hardly that. A little magical healing doesn't make one a true sorcerer," he began in a very matter-of-fact manner. "What I mean is that you had a very weird reaction to my powers when you have your own powers, as simple as they are."

As he was about to retort, he heard approaching footsteps coming down the hall. "They come!" he said in a quiet hiss as he got back to his feet. Strange immediately tossed him the sheathed knife, which he caught with ease. Aragorn pushed himself to the wall beside the hinges of the door, while the sorcerer went right to his side. A quick gesture of motion brought forth shields on both hands.

"How far?" Strange murmured. "I can check their numbers if-"

But it was too late. A key was put into the lock and the door began to open.

As Aragorn prepared himself with his hopelessly less-than-sufficient utility knife, he spared one last glance at Strange before looking forward.

_I really hope he knows how to fight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concerning the Picasso jab: Picasso's full name was Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Picasso. One of the best things I learned in art history.
> 
> Beyond using athelas and fighting the Black Breath, the full extent of Aragorn's (or Elrond's) healing powers are never really discussed by Tolkien. His ability to ease some pain by touch alone is my own interpretation.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the reviews and kudos, they really make my day. In return, an early Christmas gift!
> 
> This chapter was originally going to end at another point, but it just kept growing and growing and growing, which means I have officially given up on trying to determine how many chapters there will be at this point. The story has a mind of its own.
> 
> Framestore, the digital effects company that worked on Doctor Strange, named the type of magic used in the films. I was unable to find any other source with a name for the glowy whips and shields. Their name sounded cool so I went with it.

The door began to open.

No one had quite stepped through the half-open door, but Strider was already moving. Stephen could not help but be surprised by how quick the man was under the lingering effects of a concussion alongside his wounded leg.

_Of course, adrenaline has the amazing ability to help one push aside pain_ , flitted through his mind just as his own adrenaline shot through his body. Strider shoved the first soldier coming through the entrance into the wall just to the side of the door.

Stephen followed his steps and was immediately forced to bring his right arm up to shield himself from a swinging sword. The adrenaline kept his stance strong; it was almost as if he was one hundred percent wound-free. Once the adrenaline wore off, certainly his body would remind him of every soreness with a vengeance, but for now the sorcerer was more than happy to take advantage of the energy.

He used the shield to shove the guard back into two others behind him, forcing them all into the hallway. Four guards in total had come to fetch them, and to say they were surprised at finding their captives both unbound and ready to fight would be an understatement. While the king — it was still weird to think of him as a _king_ — continued to grapple with the first one inside the cell, Stephen kept himself in the doorway. The absolute last thing he wanted was to be locked inside again.

The three he faced eyed him and the mandalas of light warily. One of the soldiers barked something in their tongue, and then suddenly another one turned and began running to the right down the hall.

_Oh no, you don't._

Dropping the shields, he quickly formed an Eldritch cat's cradle between his hands and tore the bands apart before whipping out at the man fleeing the scene. The glowing light wound around his legs and the soldier crashed to the ground about twenty feet away.

Before he could begin to pull him back and fully prevent him from bringing reinforcements, the other two leapt upon him. Stephen pulled his right arm across himself, bringing the bands in front of his body to shield himself from their attack. He then swung back about to elbow the man on his left straight in the face.

He grunted in pain as his left elbow connected with the soldier's nose. His recently relocated shoulder did not like that action at all. _That was a bad idea._ The Eldritch whip disappeared as he lost his focus.

The third soldier quickly took advantage of the situation. He punched Stephen right in the jaw, causing him to stumble backwards into the wall. The sorcerer regained his senses just as his saw a sword coming straight for his stomach.

Another sword blocked it, and suddenly Strider was there, shoving the third soldier away from him. Stephen quickly reformed the bands as his cloak blocked the sword of the second soldier, who had managed to recover from the elbow to his nose (though said nose, he realized, was currently bleeding). The blade, thankfully, had no effect upon the enchanted fabric. He looked down the hall as he finished the gestures; the first soldier was back up on his feet and making a break for it again.

Stephen threw the whip towards him and once more the soldier crashed to the ground. This time, he hit his head solidly against the stone floor, which seemed to knock him out. Now he could focus on the _other_ man trying to kill him.

Breaking his hold upon the fallen soldier's legs, he spun around just in time to block another strike. He then parted the whip again to whack at the second soldier's face, causing him to stumble backwards from the force of the blow. Another crack, and the soldier fell to the floor with a loud thud. One more throw of the whip caused the soldier's head to bounce against the stone floor. He remained there, unmoving, but the sorcerer was relieved to see that he was still breathing.

Exhaling heavily, Stephen turned towards his companion. Strider leaned against the wall, keeping weight off his wounded leg as he caught his own breath. On the floor beside him his foe was bleeding out from a long gash in his stomach, every heartbeat forcing more blood out of his body. If they were somewhere near a hospital with modern medical technology, the man could be saved, but in this place? The sorcerer closed his eyes.

"Are you well?" Stephen opened his eyes to look at Strider.

_Deep breaths, Stephen._ "Yeah." He looked down the hall. No one else was coming, yet. The first soldier still remained on the ground about twenty-five feet away. Looking back at the second soldier he just defeated, he spotted a ring of keys on the ground beside them. Stephen carefully picked them up, shooting a brief look of annoyance at his hand as it shook violently. "I knocked out these two and I don't want to kill them. We can lock them up."

Strider was already back inside the cell, completely disarming the soldier within. He said nothing to the sorcerer's words. That particular soldier inside was lightly bleeding from the side of his head, but Stephen could not tell if he was dead or alive from his position in the poor lighting.

Taking his silence as acquiescence, Stephen hurried down the hall. He lowered his hand to the soldier's neck to check for a pulse and exhaled slowly in relief to find it beating strongly. Then wrapping the Eldritch whip around the man's legs, he dragged him back to their cell primarily using his right hand and arm. It was more difficult than it should have been.

By the time he got him inside, Strider had finished disarming all the other men and was dragging the last man — the dying man — inside the cell. The bleeding had slowed, somewhat.

Stephen stared at the blood-covered soldier. _This isn't right. I can't just watch him bleed and do nothing. It's slowed down; perhaps it is not fatal. Perhaps._

Exhaling slowly, he swerved about and knelt beside the man he had just dragged down the hall and into the cell. His hands shook violently as he pulled the dagger from the soldier's belt. Ignoring the quivering, he grabbed the man's cloak and began cutting it into strips.

"What are you doing?"

He did not look at Strider as he answered, "I am not going to let that man just bleed to death without trying _something_."

"We do not have much time." His tone was even but — _is it just my imagination?_ — it seemed almost sympathetic.

"I will make time," is all Stephen said in reply.

Perhaps Strider heard the uncompromising steel in his voice. Perhaps he heard the quavering; he loathed that it had emerged, but Stephen could not deny its existence. Regardless, Strider said no more and instead focused on gathering the weapons off the last man before leaving the cell with a whole armful of them.

Stephen finished cutting the cloak into strips and went to the bleeding man. He had long since passed out from blood loss, but the wound was not gushing blood as it was before. Maybe there was some hope for him.

_Or maybe he is already dead._

He did not waste time searching for a pulse. Instead he began wrapping the strips of the cloak around him, padding the wound especially as he worked the cloth around his body. He would have not been able to do it without the Cloak of Levitation's unexpected, but very useful assistance in lifting the man as needed.

His hands began shaking violently again as he attempted to tie the last of the strips into a secure knot. Stephen exhaled in frustration and, admittedly, some despair. When were his hands going to be of some _use_ again? Would they ever stop quivering?

"I will finish." He looked behind him and up at Strider. The other man knelt and reached for the knots he was struggling to tie. "I will finish," he repeated. "Keep a lookout."

The part of him tied deeply with his pride wanted to argue, wanted to say _no, I can do this_ , but urgency defeated that voice. Instead Stephen wordlessly straightened and went back into the hall.

The hall was now empty. Indeed, it looked completely normal were it not for the fact that there was a large puddle of blood on the floor and a long streak of it leading into the cell. He frowned. That would give them away quickly.

As the last month of his life had largely been dealing with cleaning and repairing the Sanctum after Kaecilius and his followers had partially ruined the place, one spell he was quite experienced with now involved restoring broken items and cleaning objects ruined by something else (that something else usually being blood or some acidic liquid from God knows what dimension). After receiving the explanation of this litany of spells, Stephen had concluded to Wong, 'So, it's basically magical Windex?'

Wong was not particularly amused by that quip. His follow-up about 'magical glue' produced similar results.

In the end, his intimate familiarity with these spells made cleaning the blood off the floor the easiest spell for Stephen to perform in that dimension. _Figures._

By the time he finished, Strider was emerging from the cell. One of their daggers was tucked into his belt and a sword hung loosely in his right hand. He eyed the newly clean floor with a raised brow as Stephen closed and locked the door. Despite his look, he did not comment upon it and simply asked, "Do you know the way to the stairs?"

He felt a headache coming on. Again. He did his best to ignore it and answered, "Yes," shortly. Stephen tossed the keys into the same empty room the soldiers' weapons were stowed away in. Forcing his mind away from his hands and the blood that covered them, he started cautiously down the hall after creating two mandalas of light. "There are still fifty-one of them left. And a sorcerer. As much as I want to get my sling ring now, it would probably be best to find your men before we have fun storming the castle."

He knew Strider would not get the reference, though to the other man's credit, he did not even pause. "And my sword."

He peered around the wall before turning a corner. "A sword? Is it special or something?"

Strider's lips quirked. "It is an ancestral heirloom that is several thousand years old with quite a significant history."

"Somewhat important, then," he answered with a similar expression.

They fell to silence as they quietly made their way down the corridor. Stephen gestured to the first hall that they came across, towards their left. Before he could peer beyond it, Strider grabbed his right shoulder to halt his movements, then quickly pressed himself against the wall. Stephen wordlessly followed his lead. His brow furrowed at Strider's actions, but soon enough he heard what the king had obviously heard: footsteps coming down the corridor.

Stephen frowned as he watched Strider pull out the dagger. Tapping the other's shoulder, the sorcerer shook his head. 'Let me,' he mouthed, waving his shield slightly. Strider frowned at him in turn and quickly shook his head, but Stephen was already moving past him just as the soldier came into view. Before he could so much as shout, the sorcerer stepped up behind him and bashed him over the head. Strider moved beside him and caught the body before it hit the ground.

Stephen grimaced to himself as he opened the nearest door for Strider. He was not terribly fond of causing traumatic brain injury to several people, especially in a world without modern medical facilities, but it was still better than killing them.

He caught the king's look as the man deposited the soldier in what turned out to be some sort of small armoury. "I don't like killing people," Stephen said quietly. "Or injuring them, for that matter."

"Do you think I take joy in harming others?" Strider hissed in return. "Had I the luxury, I would gladly never harm a man. But we have no luxury here, Stephen. Do not let your idealism lead to your death." Stephen frowned at him, but Strider effectively ended the conversation by leaving the room. He quickly followed and shut the door behind him.

Strider now took point and peered carefully around the corner. 'Those stairs?' he mouthed at Stephen as he gestured to a spot beyond the corner. Stephen nodded in confirmation. His head pounded a bit more angrily at him after the motion. He did his best to ignore it.

After one last look around the corner, Strider murmured, "Go," in a voice barely above a breath and then took off. The sorcerer followed him as they ran as quickly as they could while still remaining somewhat silent. They slowed to peer around another hallway they had to pass, but when it proved to be empty, they swiftly hurried onward until they reached the stairs.

The stairwell was a spiraling stone staircase wide enough for two men to walk abreast. It bore no windows, but rather was lit by the occasional torch upon the wall. Its structure gave very little warning in terms of sight, but echoed the sound of others several steps above and below a person's current position. They were currently upon the lowest level of the stairwell, and a moment of listening revealed no one else coming down. They began to proceed upward slowly, carefully listening for any other footsteps.

By the time they made it up to the ground level, his head was pounding with every beat of his heart. As Strider peered out into the hallway, the sound of footsteps suddenly echoed above them. Stephen froze and looked up.

Strider regained his senses more quickly. He lightly pushed against Stephen's back to get him moving before leading him to the door nearest the stairs. After putting an ear to it for all of two seconds, he quickly opened it and Stephen hurried inside after him. He found himself in a supply closet of some sort, surrounded by wooden crates and barrels.

"Where from here?" Strider hissed softly after closing the door behind them.

He took a moment to massage his temple. "It's right down this corridor, another right at the first hallway here, and then the third door on the left will take us right to the entrance." He had taken ample time in memorizing the best escape route earlier. "Once we leave this building, though, there is no cover."

"None at all?"

Stephen shook his head. He immediately regretted it. "Open courtyard."

If the other man saw his discomfort, he did not comment upon it. "Should there be shadows, we could perhaps use…" Strider trailed off and Stephen saw him eyeing his bright red cloak. "Never mind. We shall make immediately for the gate."

"I don't usually sneak," was all he said to the king's look.

After turning back around and putting his ear to the door once more, Strider nodded once before slowly opening it. The hallway was empty. Quickly they made their way to the first corner in the passageway, where they stopped and peered carefully around the corner.

Empty.

Making as little sound as possible while retaining speed, the two fled down the hall. Stephen felt the cloak partially lift him with each step, helping mute the noise of his passing.

They arrived to the third door on the left. Strider again put his ear against it, but did not wait long before opening it slowly. He was quickly satisfied and opened it entirely to pass through. Stephen was right on his heel.

Once the door was closed, Strider grabbed the sorcerer's right arm and tugged him deeper into the shadows of the corner near the door. Stephen shot him a quick look before peering out at the entrance hall, and then pointed silently to a set of double doors perhaps thirty feet away from them. While they could see the other side of the hall adjacent to them clearly, the wall that sprang from their corner blocked sight of the main hallway that faced the entry doors and led from the foyer and deeper into the building. Despite the silence that sat in the room, there very well could be men coming down that way even now.

Strider leaned near Stephen's ear and whispered, "Guards may wait outside the doors. Be ready to be quick and silent." He had drawn the borrowed knife again; the blood upon it was already dry from their encounter in the cell. With a bloody knife, bloody sword, and the dried blood from the wound upon his head, Strider looked almost feral. "I will need you to open the door."

Stephen simply nodded. He listened again for sound and, when he heard nothing, looked again at Strider. _Nothing for it, then._ He nodded once more in determined affirmation before quickly striding forward to the doors.

That they managed to get to the front doors of the building without alarming the whole compound was a miracle in itself, Stephen figured as he reached them. Perhaps their luck would continue and they would be able to escape without further trouble. He created a shield upon his right hand and, as planned, he pushed one of the double doors open.

It was late afternoon. He admittedly had no idea how much time had passed since he was first captured; his cracked watch was back in the Sanctum and he paid little heed to the sun's position with his arrival.

Upon either side of the doors outside was a large circular pillar made of brown stone that held up the steep eaves of the roof. Beside each pillar was a single guard, looking outward upon the open courtyard that eventually ended upon the wall that held the outer gate. Before either guard could so much as look behind them towards the doors, Strider and Stephen were already upon them. Strider quickly pulled the one upon the left behind the pillar and Stephen followed his lead with the guard on the right.

After causing yet another severe concussion, Stephen steadied the guard carefully as he fell, placing him in a seated position upon the ground in the shadow of the right pillar. He quickly looked over at Strider, who had most certainly slit his guard's throat with an eerie efficiency before placing him down in a similar manner.

Strider was now pressed against the side of the pillar that faced the double doors, keen eyes scanning the area in one quick go. Cautiously Stephen followed suit and peered over towards the gate. He frowned as he squinted at it; he had assumed that it was made of wood and iron, but another glance revealed that it seemed to have some sort of gridded metal gate in front of the wooden doors, rather than being a part of them. He knew it had some sort of fancy name, that metal gate, but it was not coming to his aching head.

Stephen saw movement in his peripheral and turned his attention to Strider. The other man looked back at the gate, shook his head, and then jutted his chin towards him. Stephen frowned in confusion and Strider repeated the gesture. It was then that he realized he was not jutting towards him, but rather to somewhere _behind_ him.

He turned his head. Behind him was the second building. Stephen frowned again, but before he could do anything further, Strider was already moving, tugging lightly at his arm to get him going. While uncertain of his intentions, he remained silent and simply followed; there was really no time for discussion behind the pillars. They likely had only a minute or two before the disabled guards were discovered.

It was not until they came to the strip of land between the walls of the main building and the second building that Stephen realized that there was another way to get to the gate, a way that Strider obviously spotted. Between the smaller second building and the ramparts that surrounded the compound was a narrow alley. Shielded in shadow, it would be a perfect way to get closer to the gate.

_That will still have us some twenty, thirty feet before the actual gate_ , he mused to himself as they snuck their way forward. _There is also that stable we could probably use, but we still have to actually_ open _the gate. The doors shouldn't be too hard, but that metal gate thing, whatever it's called, that might be challenging. And if its opening mechanism is above the gate in the wall, that might prove even more difficult. Perhaps we could jump over if that is the case, or—_

It was then that the obvious solution hit him with so much force that he almost lost his footing.

_I'm such an idiot._

Not that he would ever admit that aloud, of course. In the end, Stephen blamed his headache for his lapse in memory.

When they reached the shadowy alley between the smaller building and the wall, Stephen grabbed Strider's arm before he could go any further. "We may not need the gate." He kept his voice low.

"I beg your pardon?" Strider spoke just as quietly. He then frowned. "There is another way out of here?"

"We can fly out."

Strider looked at him as if he had just grown a second head. "What?"

"My cloak," he said with a harried gesture. "It's called the Cloak of Levitation. It supports me easily, but I've never tried carrying someone else with me."

His companion only seemed to hear half of what he said. "Your cloak gives you the ability to fly."

Stephen frowned. "Yes, that's just what I said. I don't know if it can support both of us," he repeated, "but it's worth a shot."

Strider blinked, staring at him, then at the cloak, then back at him. He exhaled. "Very well, then." He looked up the wall of the rampart that extended well over twenty feet above them. "How do we proceed?"

_Good question._ He pressed his lips together as he took a quick moment to figure this out. "Whatever way we do this, it's going to be awkward," he eventually said. "You're rather tall and my left arm can't support a blanket, never mind a grown man."

Despite their precarious situation, Strider smiled in dry amusement. "Very awkward." He pressed his lips together in thought. "Do your cloak's powers work without you?"

"Yeah. The cloak is its own power." He smiled slightly at it, almost unconsciously. "It's saved my life more than once."

Strider hesitated before suggesting slowly, "Perhaps it could carry us out separately."

Stephen raised his brows at the suggestion, then looked back down at the cloak. "I honestly have no idea if it will agree to that. I've never had to do that before, but we could—"

Suddenly, great commotion came from the front of the large building. The pillar guards had been found.

_Out of time._ "Grab on!" Stephen called, and Strider did not need to be told twice. He wrapped his left arm over the sorcerer's right shoulder and around the back of his neck, his hand ending in a tight grip near (though thankfully not on) his left shoulder. In his right hand he still held the sword. Stephen's own right arm quickly wrapped around the other man's waist and without further ado, the cloak lifted them.

Stephen knew, even before they left the ground, that this was really not going to help his headache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested, the metal grid gate thingy that Stephen could not remember the name of is formally known as a portcullis.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the delay in getting out this chapter. Real life took a turn that killed my muses for a couple of months. I hope that you all enjoy this chapter, regardless of the wait.

The cloak made quite the valiant effort in lifting the two of them over the wall. It took their weight with what seemed to be relative ease, though there was a slight, unusual delay between Stephen's thoughts and the cloak acting upon them. For all he knew, it was the lingering effects of the magic within this dimension rather than the extra weight, but he could not be certain.

Something to test another time. Maybe Christine would like to fly.

A couple arrows flew a few feet over his head as he came to the top of the rampart; unable to shield them both with his hands holding Strider aloft, he immediately sunk down half a dozen feet and closer to the wall's parapet instinctively.

That was his first mistake.

His trajectory of flight was immediately halted when a considerable amount of weight pulled him down a foot, and Strider shifted heavily in his grip. He registered the other man shouting in pain — or anger, perhaps both — as he slipped. Stephen's gaze shifted downward and the problem was quickly evident; in trying to avoid the arrows by moving closer to the top of the rampart, he drifted close enough for one of the taller soldiers to jump up and grab Strider's ankle — on his wounded leg, of course.

The cloak began to tug upward against the additional weight as Strider attempted to shake the soldier's grip off; when a handful of seconds passed with little success and an arrow flew dangerously close past the left side of his body, he grimaced to himself.

This would not do.

Stephen dropped down to the walkway. As he descended, Strider aimed a kick with his perfectly healthy right leg straight into his assailant's face, causing the soldier to release his left ankle by the time they were both on the solid stone. The sorcerer spied Strider absorbing their new position with the immediate ease that he executed in their earlier skirmishes; he forced the warrior out of his mind to focus on his own protection.

Strider drew his sword to meet the soldier — who had just recovered himself — and a second one running up to confront him. Stephen positioned himself at Strider's back to watch the other side of the walkway. The sorcerer quickly spotted a third soldier sprinting towards them; in the corner of his eye, the archers in the courtyard prepared to fire once more.

_Great._

One problem at a time. The arrows were clearly going to reach them before the third soldier. Ignoring his shoulder — as was more or less par for the course the last couple of hours — he quickly conjured two large shields as they fired at him. They bounced off harmlessly.

It seemed the archers were reluctant to fire at him again just as the third soldier crossed the final yards between them. At least that was one problem out of the way. Stephen crossed his shielded arms in front of himself to block the blow of the heavy sword, and with a grunt shoved his opponent back. As the man recovered his stance, the sorcerer dropped the shield and quickly drew the cat's cradle between his hands. By the time the soldier tried to swing at him again, the Eldritch whip caught the sword; one swift, forceful twist and pull later, the soldier's weapon was flying off the wall and down into the courtyard. The soldier paused a moment, as if not quite understanding what just happened.

He took advantage of his hesitation and threw the whip at him; the man flew back several yards and landed roughly against the walkway with a painful grunt that made Stephen wince sympathetically. Hopefully they had a good doctor. Healer. Whatever they were called here.

Stephen chanced a look over his shoulder; Strider's two opponents were down, the status of their health poor at best and dead at worst. Before he could say anything to him, two more arrows flew dangerously close to the both of them. From the far tower he faced emerged several soldiers.

"Run!" he shouted, twisting about and making an immediate beeline towards the other tower, no more than ten yards beyond Strider. He heard his companion following closely behind, keeping up with him despite the state of his leg.

Once they were inside the tower room, Stephen threw the heavy wooden door shut. He dragged a chair to jam the handles, then set an empty weapon rack and a table against the door. Strider, in the meanwhile, quickly went to the other two entrances — one that led to the continuation of the walkway and the other to a flight of stairs that led down to the courtyard — and blockaded them quickly.

This was his second mistake. It was only after all three entrances were closed and barricaded that Stephen realized that the tower room did not actually have any windows.

_Shit._

Strider, however, seemed to be waiting for something further and looked at him quite expectantly. When Stephen did not say or do anything for a handful of beats, the king said impatiently, "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"What is the rest of your plan? I presume you led us in here for a reason."

"I was presuming there was going to be a window in here!" Stephen snapped.

Strider gave him a hard look showing quite clearly what he thought about _that_ plan. Upon two of the doors a harsh pounding had already started and was only getting louder. "Why did we not fly away?" he asked as he hurried towards the door that led to the other side of the ramparts, the only one that was not yet being assaulted by what sounded like entirely too many soldiers.

Stephen made a face. _Why did we not do that, Stephen?_ said a very mocking voice inside his head. "Why did you not mention that while we were still out there?" he retorted scathingly as he followed him.

The other man only spared him the briefest of stern looks in reply before he started shoving away the weapon rack against the door that did not yet have hostile forces beyond it. Stephen, in the meanwhile, pulled away a heavy wooden chair. They both began to grab the last item against the door, a heavy crate that was easier to carry between the two of them, when the entrance unexpectedly burst open.

Five soldiers entered the room; the pounding upon the other two doors had masked their approach. As one, Stephen and Strider dropped the crate and backed up as they brandished their weapons once more. Beyond the doorway, streaming from a tower far, far on the other side of the walkway upon the rampart, another group of men began to appear. They would be upon them within a minute.

Stephen could not help but notice how this was quickly turning from bad to worse.

There was no time to consider what was more than likely going to lead to their defeat. The five soldiers leapt upon them and the sorcerer quickly became busy blocking and shoving and bashing the soldiers away with his shielded arms. Time slowed and movement became automatic as he worked on simply keeping himself up from second to second.

Fifteen seconds into the fight, as he managed to knock his three opponents away for a brief, very brief breath of respite, he heard a voice behind him.

"I see you have made friends with the locals."

Stephen twisted his head about in shock. "Wong!"

The three soldiers attempting to take him down were just as shocked to see this new figure and the bright circle of golden sparks that closed even as the other sorcerer finished walking through the portal. The first soldier to recover grabbed a spear from a near weapon rack and threw it at Wong.

The librarian casually lifted a now-shielded hand to block the spear, then grabbed it before it hit the ground. He strode up a few steps to join Stephen, who had backed up closer to him. "What are you doing here?" he asked Wong. In the corner of his eye, he spotted Strider still fighting with one of the soldiers; the other one was out of sight, presumably incapacitated in some manner.

"Looking for you, of course." Wong paused as he dealt with one soldier while the other two leapt upon Stephen once more.

The cloak blocked a swipe from one of the men while its master shoved the other towards the wall. The back of the soldier's head collided with the wall, stunning him momentarily. He took advantage of this, quickly grabbed the back of his head by his cowl, and knocked his opponent's skull roughly against the stone wall. That took him out.

As the soldier fell to the floor, his medically-inclined mind immediately began to spin facts before he realized what he was doing. _Certain intracranial injury. GCS undoubtedly moderate to severe with that force. High death rate before medical advancements in the 20th century. Possibilities of impairment to higher level cognitive functions, limited functions in limbs, abnormal speech patterns, altered emotional state— stop it, Stephen! You cannot afford to think about that. Not now._ As the soldier finished sliding to the floor, he forced himself to turn away to assess the room again.

Wong had taken out his opponent and was now fighting the last one with the spear. He tripped his legs from under him with the blunt end of the weapon easily. As he seemed to be handling himself well, Stephen twisted his eyes towards the open door even as Strider managed to shove it shut against the tide that was perhaps but fifteen seconds away. _He must have realized Wong got in here somehow_ flitted through his mind as he ran towards him and helped replace the barricade. He shoved the near chair under the heavy door handle just seconds before one of the soldiers outside collided heavily with it.

"Considering your current condition, it seems I was wise to go looking for you," Wong said as if he had not been interrupted by 'the locals'. His final opponent, the last of the five soldiers, was on the floor, quite unconscious. Wong's eyes darted towards Strider, who was looking at him in a mix of befuddlement and suspicion.

"He's a friend," Stephen hurriedly clarified for the both of them. He strode over to Wong as he continued with, "Let's get out of here before they break through the door." Even now, he could hear them thumping at the wood to try and force the chair away on the door they just closed, and the other two entrances seemed near breaking from the force upon them.

Wong turned around and held his left hand in the air, sling ring already upon his fingers. He rotated his hand counterclockwise until a clear vision of a forest floor came before them encircled within a ring of gold sparks.

Stephen grabbed at Strider's arm as he stared in bewilderment. "C'mon!" He pulled him through the portal with thankfully no resistance from the other man. Wong quickly followed and immediately closed the portal behind him.

The pounding of heavy force against thick wood immediately cut off and now only the soft thrum of the woods surrounded them. Wind-fluttered leaves and happily chirping birds were quite unperturbed by their sudden appearance. Stephen exhaled heavily; never before was he so happy to hear nature. "We made it," he said, not bothering to hide his clear relief.

"You're welcome," Wong answered dryly, eyeing him up and down critically.

Stephen's pride butted its way back into his consciousness and he inadvertently straightened at Wong's snark. "We would have made it eventually. We were almost out," he argued. "Besides, it hasn't even been two hours. You said you would give me two hours."

Wong continued to eye him stoically. "It's been two and a half hours."

He frowned. "Really? I would've sworn I still had half an hour left, at least." Grudgingly appeased with the answer, he allowed himself to relax his stance and finish catching his breath.

Strider looked between the two of them silently as they spoke. At the pause in the conversation, he asked, "What was that? Where are we?"

"That," Stephen started wryly, "is why I need to get my sling ring back."

Wong frowned at him. "What happened to your sling ring?"

"It was taken. They have a sorcerer here. Thankfully he has no idea how to use it." He straightened once more. "Where did you take us, Wong?"

"We are where I landed when I first came here. It's about fifty miles south of the fortress I found you in."

Stephen nodded, reassured, but Strider's eyes widened in dismay. "Fifty miles? I need to get back to my men before they needlessly attempt to attack the compound."

Wong glanced at Strider with his usual, impassive look before raising a brow at Stephen in question. "Who's your friend, Strange?"

"Oh, right." He waved his right hand casually towards Strider; consciously he was trying to use his left arm as little as possible. It did not appreciate that fight at all and, with the adrenaline fading from his system, it was making its complaints well known. "This is Str— no, wait, Aragorn. Aragorn, right?" At Strider's nod of confirmation, he continued, "Aragorn, this is my colleague, Wong. Unlike you, he prefers just having one name."

Wong did not so much as crack a smile. Strider — or rather, Aragorn — just shot him a dry look.

Stephen sighed softly. To Aragorn he said, "We can get to your men easily enough. Wong will just make a portal for us." As the sorcerer finished speaking, he stepped closer to him, getting a better look at his wounds in the afternoon light, looking at both the old and for any new ones. Aragorn seemed to know exactly what Stephen was doing and began looking him over in a similar manner.

"You were right about your head," Aragorn said as he eyed the cut on the sorcerer's forehead. "You are not dizzy, are you?"

"I should be asking that of you," Stephen retorted. "Your pupils are dilated. Frankly put, I find it astounding that you were able to hold yourself as you did. You seemed like you didn't have a concussion at all." He paused. "You're still holding up remarkably well, actually."

Aragorn slightly smiled. "Well, when one has had a century of practice, injuries can be pushed aside until after a fight."

Stephen blinked. "A _century_?"

"Yes." He looked at Wong. "Can we please travel to my company? They will have medical supplies that we both sorely need."

"Where are they?" he asked as he straightened his left hand in front of him.

Stephen was the one who answered with, "They're probably pretty close to the fortress. They were approaching from the southwest. Wong, make us a portal about two miles southwest of the fortress. From there we can search the area easily enough."

Wong rolled his eyes at being commanded in such a manner, but offered no verbal protest and began to draw a circle with his other hand counterclockwise. Soon enough another section of forest appeared in a frame of light, and the three men quickly disappeared into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit short, but it was a good natural break and I wanted to get something out there sooner rather than later. With a break in the combat, I am hoping the next chapter comes a bit easier!
> 
> REQUEST: I am looking for someone who is very informed of modern medical technology and modern medical practices that I can ask questions to for clarification— little details that are very difficult to find on websites that tend to simply cover generalities. Bonus if you have knowledge of emergency rooms and emergency practices in both the US and Britain. Please leave a review or send a PM if you would be interested in answering the occasional medical question! Thanks!


End file.
